I have a confession that may surprise some people – even those who know me well:
I’m not a very good reader.
It’s not a literacy problem; I’ve just always been rather poor at reading books. Of course, I’m constantly reading ’blogs and columns, and magazine articles before that, but I’ve always needed a certain peace of mind to sit down and devour a complete book. Don’t ask me why. And due to my programming, it’s a peace of mind that comes all too rarely. As a result, my reading habits have traditionally been somewhat bulimic – I would binge for a month or so, and then read no books for sometimes years at a stretch.
In a crowded field, it’s something I’ve liked least about myself. I’ve always admired people who constantly have a book on the go and wanted to be like them – and I expect many of my friends assume I am – but I wasn’t.
That changed this year. It started when I took several books on holiday with me. It’s not unusual that I do this when I go away. What’s unusual is that this time I read almost all of them. I expected to slack off once I got home, but then I wanted to finish Mike Scott’s Adventures of a Waterboy before I saw The Waterboys in March. Realising I was in a binge-reading phase, I was determined to keep it going. Much to my surprise, I did.
I have read 32 books for the year. Now I must admit, a lot of them were short takes of less than a hundred pages, but by either titles or page count, that’s more than I’ve read in the previous ten years – in terms of books, anyway.
It’s not as if the peace of mind usually needed to sit down with a book was around this year. Indeed, it was conspicuous by its absence. For reasons not relevant to this topic, it has been a hellishly stressful year. This was also the year I did seek medical intervention for the aforementioned programming, but I was well into my binge by the time that started.
If I can credit one thing for giving me the reading habits I’ve always wanted, it’s Goodreads.
I first joined Goodreads years ago in order to keep up with my dearest’s reading. She uses it mostly for keeping track of her own reading rather than to interact with others or brag, but let me tell you, she has plenty to brag about in terms of reading numbers. I gradually started adding books that I’d read. And then when I discovered the bar-code reading feature of the mobile app, I started adding all the books I had yet to read, and it made me somewhat ashamed. I started tracking my reading on Goodreads and added a few people I know from Twitter and Facebook, and now I get the feeling that friends will notice if I start slacking off – even though they probably pay no attention to my updates.
Oh dear! Social media again. Such narcissism!
Yes, I plead guilty to social media narcissism, but let’s also admit that we’re all narcissists in one way or another. If it weren’t for narcissism, we wouldn’t comb our hair or change our clothes either, so while I’m not suggesting that narcissism is any kind of virtue, it can be channelled for good.
I went to a little gallery ten years ago called the Museum of Particularly Bad Art, or something along those lines, and the proprietor said that its existence was testament to the fact that if you give voice to your dreams, then someone is going to make you follow them.
No-one in particular is making me follow my dream of being a better reader, but now I feel bad if I haven’t updated my reading progress a couple of times a week – and have something decent to show in those updates.
I haven’t connected my account to any other accounts – I’m not spamming my Facebook friends every time I finish a chapter, so by modern standards it’s not oversharing, but there are worse ways to overshare. So if there’s something you’re determined to do, try telling people about it. They don’t have to follow you, and maybe not many people will, but just the thought that someone may be watching can help you to finish what you started.
If you’re that way inclined, you can add me on Goodreads here.
This piece is partly prompted by Rhys Muldoon’s lovely column today, and partly something I have been thinking for quite a while on the subject of whether or not we choose our sexual orientation and who to love.
I can’t approach being anywhere near as eloquent as Mr Muldoon on the subject of love so I will be writing about the mechanics of sexual attraction. I am writing from the male perspective because that’s the only perspective I have, but I would love to hear from women on the topic too.
The question of whether people choose who they are attracted to can be answered in one very blunt sentence of five simple words:
You can’t fake an erection.
It’s that simple. You can’t.
Of course, there are many things that can cause an erection that have nothing in particular to do with sexual attraction, especially if you’re a teenager. It could be a whiff of perfume, a cool breeze, a particular underwear fabric, the way the train jiggles, or even something as simple as waking up. This doesn’t mean you want to marry your bed sheets.
I’ll say that again just in case Cory Bernardi is reading: This. Does. Not. Mean. You. Want. To. Marry. Your. Bed. Sheets. Is that clear?
An erection is by no means an infallible sign of overt sexual attraction but it is the body saying Mmm, I like that! You can’t just make it happen, it’s completely involuntary. The only way to make an erection happen in a situation that you don’t find arousing is to think of something that you do find arousing – whatever that may be.
You also can’t stop an erection. There’s no saying ‘Down boy, we don’t choose to be turned on by that kind of thing.’ If it’s going to happen, then it’s going to happen and you have no choice in the matter whatsoever. You might – and I stress might – be able to control it a little bit by thinking unattractive thoughts but your chances aren’t good. Arousal is like blinking or getting goose bumps. You don’t do it because you choose to, but because it is (pardon the pun) hardwired.
Every man knows this is true. Almost every woman knows this is true of men. I can’t speak for women (and again, I would welcome women to comment), but given that female arousal is generally a more complex process than in males, I strongly suspect it would support my premise that you can’t make it happen if it isn’t happening and you can’t stop it happening if it is. Women are fortunate that they can still be a bit mysterious and dignified in their arousal, but the penis never lies.
So why on earth is anyone still suggesting that a person’s attraction to another person is some kind of lifestyle choice and not basic programming? Is it because it’s a barely plausible excuse to treat people differently?
And why are some who have finally come to accept the fact that it’s simply how someone is built suggesting that it’s okay if they’re built that way so long as they don’t act on it. That’s like saying it’s okay to be hungry so long as you don’t eat.
If you’re still not convinced, do the experiment yourself. Pick something that doesn’t attract or stimulate you, and try to get off on it. You will not be able to do it. If you can, then it only means that it really does attract and stimulate you. And that’s perfectly alright too.
“Who here has never been in love?” asks the host from under an umbrella while the contestants stand in the rain. “Come on, be honest!” she goads as a few sheepishly put their hands up.
“The Biggest Loser this year, is all about singles,” we are told and there is so much wrong with this that I’m going to have a hard time putting it all in order without punching a few walls.
We can see what the basic idea is here. The Biggest Loser has been going for a few years so it’s time to bring in a new gimmick by mashing it up with Farmer Wants a Wife or some such. That would be bad enough. Hell, the original idea of The Biggest Loser is bad enough. Making weight loss a race is unhealthy in itself and they make their participants try to lose unhealthy amounts of weight over a dangerously short time period which risks triggering the body’s starvation response. Most reality television is merely stupid but The Biggest Loser is seriously irresponsible.
Now they’re making it even worse by making the humiliation not just about body image but about their love lives as well. The message is clear: they’re too fat for love. Ha ha! Look at the fatties out in the rain! They’ve never been in love! They’re probably virgins! Haha! But, as the captions inform us, they’re “ready for love.”
“You’re all here because you want your lives to change,” lectures the presenter, who goes on to list some of the torment they are in for before stating, “At the end of it all, sixteen singles will be ready.”
Ready? Ready for what, exactly? Ready to submit themselves to the judgement of people who wouldn’t have looked at them before? Ready to present themselves with confidence? That’s got nothing to do with weight and if that is what was sapping their confidence, shows like The Biggest Loser have plenty to do with that.
That promo got me angry enough, but this next one is even worse:
The contestants are forced to explain themselves, to explain how their weight has stopped them finding love. One perfectly attractive girl says she has never kissed a boy while another poor lady is shown wondering how she can give someone a loving relationship if she doesn’t have the confidence to look at herself in the mirror. None of this is challenged as the wrong way of looking at things. It’s never pointed out that they have internalised the media’s perception of beauty or that accepting yourself doesn’t come from changing yourself.
Then there’s the soundtrack. The use of the Beatles’ final ever song to promote crap like this is vulgar enough in itself, but let’s just think about the words of the song in relation to what it’s being used for.
It’s real Love,
Yes it’s real.
No. It. ISN’T!
Real love is for better or worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. If you need it spelled out for you, it also means for fat or for skinny you pricks!
We all know that ‘reality’ television is a social disease that chews people up and spits them out. Most of the time, I don’t care. If some precocious brats think that subjecting themselves to ridicule on The X Factor is going to set them on their way to becoming the next Miley Cyrus, or that their tomato-julienning skills are going to impress the pants off of Master Chef and have them rubbing shoulders with Heston Blumenthal, then more fool them. I don’t give a shit. But when television producers take a group of already vulnerable people and submit them to physical and psychological stress, and play on their insecurities, in public for fun and profit, under the guise of self-improvement – that’s when a civilised society should say Enough is enough!
I don’t blame the contestants. I know what it’s like to be desperate for love and to be willing to try anything to find it. To them I would say: you are all beautiful and deserving of love just as you are. If you want to try to lose weight for yourself, that’s fine. But if you’re doing this because you think it’s the only way you can love or be loved, then I have to tell you that’s not how it works. I never had a weight problem, but I never had a girlfriend until I was a couple of weeks off thirty. I don’t know why, but I know it wasn’t weight. Just because you’re single or lacking confidence doesn’t mean you have to put yourself through this. And just look around at people who have partners. Are they all TV beautiful? Do they all have model figures? Of course not! If someone won’t accept you as you are now, then they don’t deserve you afterwards. If there are people who would only love you if you lost weight, then fuck them and fuck anyone who tells you to.
There are many reasons why people watch reality television. Some watch it because they’re silly enough to believe the premise of the show. Some watch it to be catty about the contestants in their choice of song or frock or dish or whatever. Some people watch it to hear what bitches the judges are. As usual, the network and producers don’t care WHY you watch, so long as you watch. That’s where you can make a difference.
Do NOT watch The Biggest Loser. Don’t watch it, “just to see how bad it is,” or “just because it was on after ____,” or because they have a guest star you like. Just do NOT watch it for any reason. I want to be perfectly clear about this: if ANYONE watches The Biggest Loser for ANY reason, then YOU are the problem and I will blame you for it.
Although I have never been diagnosed, I’ve been certain for years that I have some kind of depressive condition. The reasons I’ve never sought a diagnosis, or “got help” as so many glibly say as if it means anything useful, are several. Part of the reason is that getting help for depression is a bit like washing your summer clothes; the best time to do it is the best time not to do it. The best day to do some washing is when it’s warm and sunny, which is when you’d rather be wearing your summer clothes than washing them. When you’re not wearing your summer gear, it’s not such a good washing day and what do you need it for anyway? Depression effects different people in different ways. When I’m in a down phase, I just want to hide and the last thing I want to do is be a burden to anyone or have people fussing over me. In fact, when I’m on a downer, it actually annoys me when people try to help me in any way. And when I’m not on a downer, then why would I go to a doctor to say, “I’m feeling good now, but I’ve been depressed in the past,” - especially when there will be people in the waiting room with more immediate, more definable ailments?
The other reason I’ve never sought medical intervention is the old guy-thing of possibly not wanting to know the answer. I’ve no idea what level my condition is - or if I even have one at all - but I have seen people who I know are on anti-depressants and they are so messed up by the medication that it prompted me to say to my dearest, “Whatever happens, please don’t let them do that to me.” Having said that, I also know people who say their medication has been the best thing that ever happened to them. But everyone’s experiences are different.
Another thing I don’t want to do is look like I’m using depression as an excuse for anything. While I fully accept that there are hidden diseases like Asperger’s or chronic fatigue syndrome that are every bit as serious as conditions that are obvious, like a stroke or a missing limb, we have to be honest and recognise that some of these conditions are easier to imitate as well. A few years ago, I taught a course where we had to interview all the enrollees to check that they were eligible and appropriate for the course. There was one who said right at the beginning, “You might have some trouble with me because I’ve got depression.” I don’t doubt for a moment that she had the condition and I may be doing her a grave injustice here, but to announce that in your opening statement suggests to me that she might have been using it as a bit of an excuse. Again, that may be an extremely unfair and unworthy observation, but what I know is that I don’t want to come across like that. In a way, I’m a closet depressive. I’m not ashamed or embarrassed. I just don’t want people making allowances for it. I don’t want it factored into the way people talk to me or deal with me. I don’t want people being careful around me.
So I haven’t been diagnosed, but I know how I feel. I saw a documentary on depression once that talked about how to possibly identify it. They suggested that if you think you might have depression then you probably do. I don’t know if I believe that. There are some people who read a medical book and catch the index - I sometimes feel that way with psychology. However, when I hear people who have been diagnosed describe their conditions, depression is the one I can relate to the most, in the same way as I could when I first realised I needed glasses as a teenager. Equally, I’m wary of it becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy. At high school, I used to joke about being a manic depressive just because it seemed like a cool and artistic thing to be. The Peanuts character I related to the most was Charlie Brown. Neil was always my favourite of The Young Ones. I think it’s an open question as to which of these is cause and which is effect. For all that, it’s only in the last few years that I’ve begun to think it’s an actual condition, rather than just my personality or what’s going on around me.
While depression is something that must be recognised as a real and serious condition, it should also be recognised that depression can also be a perfectly natural and normal feeling depending on the circumstances. I’ve spent most of the last 25 years or so trying to work out which is which. I have a friend who was recovering from a very serious operation and a marriage breakup at the same time and asked her doctor to give her something for the depression she was feeling at the time. He refused. His reply was, “You’ve had a brain tumour and your husband has just left you. Of course you’re depressed. I would be too.” He was a smart doctor. In a similar way, I always felt I had pretty good grounds for my depression in the past. Whether it was loneliness, isolation, unemployment or a relationship breakup, I thought - and still think - that these were things worth being depressed about. It wasn’t until a big crash in 2008 that I seriously began to wonder if my depression was some kind of condition rather than a natural and appropriate reaction to the world around me.
At this time, life was good. I had a good job which I enjoyed and I had the love of an amazing person. The absence of these two things - especially the latter - was the most common cause of mood crashes before. Although I wasn’t unhappy, I could barely lift my head when I didn’t have to. Even my father began to notice. This is significant because I usually try to hide how I’m feeling from those closest to me. Actually, “hide” is the wrong word. I want to spare them from it - I don’t want to drag them along. It’s not a universal truth that misery loves company. For me, it’s a measure of the crash when I don’t even have the energy to spare my parents from what’s happening. And at that time, I really didn’t know what was happening because this time, there was not a good reason for it. It actually came as something of a relief when I realised several weeks into it that I must be depressed. It went some way to explaining the lack of energy, the thoughts of death, the anxiety and panic attacks, and the return of a nervous twitch when I’m stressed.
I’m not entirely sure I’ve recovered from that phase. For a couple of years prior to that, I was relatively content and although wonderful things have happened since, most of the time it feels like the monsters are still just around the corner.
I should explain that expression:
A lot of people describe depression by quoting Churchill’s description of it as the black dog. I choose not to. I like black dogs. My description comes from the song by Something For Kate. I have no idea if this is what Paul Dempsey was referring to when he wrote this song, but it describes perfectly what a depressive phase feels like to me:
And I don’t want to slide into apathy And I don’t want to die in captivity But these monsters follow me around Hunting me down, try to wipe me out.
Yep. That’s how it feels.
The final confirming source that leads me to now believe I have some kind of condition is the fact that I have spoken to others who have been diagnosed and they get it. And they recognise that I get it when they speak about their experiences. There’s no point in telling someone who is depressed that things are going to be alright. That doesn’t compute in the place where they are. Don’t try to cheer them up. You may get them to crack a smile but it’s not going to last. Don’t bother complimenting them. They won’t believe you. And don’t give us that RUOK-Day nonsense. If you’re asking because of an awareness campaign, a depressed person will see through that in a second. But do understand that they’re not rejecting your efforts; it’s just a symptom of the condition. There have been times when I have said, in all seriousness, “Don’t lie!” when someone has said they missed me or was thinking about me. It’s a terrible thing to say to someone showing me friendship. As I’ve come to recognise my condition a bit more, I’ve been able to manage it just a little bit better.
What follows should not in any way be considered advice. It’s simply a description of my own experiences.
I am incredibly lucky to live with someone who understands and who I don’t have to hide my madness from. I knew she was the one when, on a visit in 2009, I had a complete emotional meltdown, and she didn’t miss a beat. Actually, I knew she was the one before that, but this helped confirm it. Even so, I tell her not to indulge me too much. I don’t hide things from her because she deserves to know the worst of me. Beyond that, I can be a good actor. A lot of people are under the impression that I’m a pretty smiley, happy person. It wouldn’t help anyone, including me, for them to know what can go on in my head. Despite the aversion to medication I mentioned earlier, I am in no way against anti-depressants, properly used. However, treatment for any physical ailment includes exercise. In a way, I’ve had to practise putting on a front for people who wouldn’t understand. I don’t know if that has made things better or worse for myself. While I would love it if more people understood, it wouldn’t help things if I were indulged to the point of not having to try to be... well... I hate to use this word, but... normal. The fact that I have survived without any diagnosis or treatment might suggest I’m overstating my depression. I allow for the possibility that I might be. Truthfully though, I’ve survived because I didn’t know what else to do.
As wonderful and understanding as my dearest is, it’s frustrating for her too. I really can talk to her about how I’m feeling – which is to say that I have the opportunity to, but even then, sometimes I can’t. There are times when the thoughts are going through my head so fast that it’s impossible to describe them. Then there are times when I want to shake those thoughts and talking about them would only keep them in there. This can sometimes lead her to think that I’m not talking to her, but if I don’t tell her what’s going on in my mind, it’s because I can’t. Not in the same way that I can’t talk to my parents about it, but in the way that it’s impossible to put it into coherent sentences and if I could, it would only make the monsters stronger. Sometimes though, it doesn’t even get that far. Sometimes, I’ll be curled up in a weeping mess, feeling all the sadness of the world and the only honest answer I can give to the question of what’s wrong is, “I don’t know.”
I had been planning to write this piece for a couple of years now. Like the getting help or the summer laundry, it was all a question of getting the timing just right. Talking about depression runs the risk of feeding it. So does talking about happiness in my case. When I was feeling well, I chose not to write about depression because it might trigger some for me. When I’ve been in the darkest depths, I wouldn’t do anything so self indulgent. Today seemed the right day. I had a mood-swing last night. I’m a bit better today, but I think it’s going to take a couple more days to dig myself out of it. Since I’m mostly functional, it seemed like a good time to write.
My only reason in writing this is to try and explain from one person’s point of view, how depression feels. I don’t speak for anyone else. I have no advice to offer. This is usually the part where you’re supposed to post links to places that can help. Since I’ve never availed myself of such services, I’m in no position to comment, although I’m sure they do wonderful work. What I can do is recommend a couple of excellent posts by Mike Stuchbery and Ben Pobjie describing their experiences.
I have tried to keep a fairly broad point of view for the political and social commentary that I post here. However, on the issue of boat people and so-called illegal immigration, I feel compelled to share a personal story.
My wife is American. She is currently in the US and we are going through the visa application process. It will take up to six months or more before we get an answer on that. If you think it’s hard being away from each other for so long, you’re damn right. Thank God for the internet!
There were a number of ways we could have gone about it. She could have come in on a tourist visa and then gotten a bridging visa while we applied for the partner visa here. That would have been perfectly legal, but we felt it would be dishonest for her to enter the country on a tourist visa when we both know we have every intention of her staying for good if at all possible. So instead, we did what we felt was right by having her apply for a partner visa while in her home country.
Let me be clear on one thing: we would dearly love to cut the process short. We wish we could just fast-forward to when it’s all been done. But do you know one option we never considered? We never considered having L make her way to Asia, get onto a rickety boat and risk her life bobbing along the Indian ocean for a couple of months in the hope that she might wash up on the coast of Western Australia. Not once did we look at all the ‘queue-jumpers’ and think, “Hey, why don’t we try that?”
So to suggest that anyone would try that – with or without people-smugglers – if they weren’t desperate and had better options, really defies all logic.
I don’t know of anyone whose life has been adversely affected by boat arrivals, but perhaps that says more about the circles I move in, so if you do, please educate me. Obviously we can’t have a complete open-door policy or it will become an opportunity for real queue-jumpers, but the debate as it is framed right now is bullshit.
Both parties have scrambled to appeal to people’s lowest instincts and are proposing cuts in immigration. I’ll tell you this much: if this beat-up of an issue makes things any harder than they already are for my wife and me, then I’m going to blame a few people, and I don’t mean the ones on the boats.
I know what you’re thinking already. You’re thinking that this is written by a guy so it’s just going to be another blokey diatribe about what funny darn cattle these women are and why can’t they be more interested in football and cars like normal people. It’s nothing of the sort. In fact, I intend to answer the question.
I’ll answer a bit of it anyway. I can’t actually explain the attraction to shoes. This is not because I am a stereotypical male who takes no particular interest in fashion. The truth is, I’d rather go clothes shopping than watch football any day. But shoes remain my big blind spot. I have one pair of reasonably decent shoes, one pair of almost worn out shoes and one pair of completely worn out, why-haven’t-you-thrown-those-away? shoes which I wear for mowing and working around the yard. In my world, that’s plenty. So there is still a bit of blokiness in me in that I don’t get the specific attraction to shoes. The point is that I don’t have to.
Last month, my beloved and I were in Melbourne – a city which, she tells me, has a much wider availability of cute shoes than her home town. So while we were there, we made time to check out some cute shoe shops. I wanted to buy her some if we could find some she liked because.... well, I love her and I want to make her happy.
We were successful in finding some suitably cute shoes. I can’t really tell you what made them better than the others we looked at. They were black, patent leather, and I believe ribbon was involved but the shoes themselves were not particularly special to me. What was special to me was the smile. My beloved has a special voice that comes when she is talking about good food and, as I discovered that day, a special smile that comes from having cute shoes. That smile meant everything to me.
However much we may love someone, it’s so tempting to trivialise or deride a pleasure or pursuit that we don’t understand even if we know it gives a loved-one happiness. Sometimes we do it even because it gives a loved-one happiness. It can end up poisoning relationships and it’s totally unnecessary.
When it comes to physical intimacy, we accept that we can never truly understand what it is that our partner is feeling. But we do know enough to know that it gives them pleasure and it give us pleasure to be giving them that pleasure. It heightens the experience to have each partner’s pleasure linked the other’s. It’s such a shame that so many of us choose not to apply the same attitude to the other things that make our loved-ones happy. If we want our partner to be happy, surely it is a pleasure just to see them happy, regardless of whether we relate to the source of that happiness or not.
I am incredibly lucky to have someone who takes her own pleasure in seeing me happy or excited even when she doesn’t understand what it is I’m excited about. For her, it’s shoes; for me, it’s guitar effects pedals. She has often recalled her own joy at being with me when I bought a Line 6 Echo Park delay pedal (which knocks the Boss DD-5 for six) for half price. She will freely admit that she has no idea what’s so cool about this pedal. In fact, she barely knows what effects pedals are. Knowing what they are or do is irrelevant. She knows enough to know they give me pleasure and that alone is enough for her to share in my pleasure. Her pleasure comes from my joy.
When I go out to see bands, she asks me to call after the show is over, not because she wants to check up on me, but because she wants to hear the excitement in my voice that apparently comes from just having seen a great gig. I wish more people were like this. I wish more people took pleasure from their loved-one’s happiness rather than trying to coerce them into sharing one partner’s interests or abandoning another’s.
So I don’t really know what it is with women and shoes after all. I don’t know what made this particular pair of shoes cuter than the rest. I don’t know and I don’t care. I bought her those shoes just because I wanted to do something nice for her – but then next time I buy her shoes, it will be pure self-interest because I would do anything to see that smile again.
........ Both involve feet. Both give great pleasure to both partners.
If I can credit one thing for giving me the reading habits I’ve always wanted, it’s Goodreads. 
